THE WRITING IN THE BOOK.
It was five minutes past four as Mr. Robert Audley out upon the at Shoreditch, and waited until such time as his dogs and his should be delivered up to the who had called his cab, and the of his affairs, with that which such to a class of who are to accept the of a public.
Robert Audley waited with patience for a time; but as the was a long train, and as there were a great many from Norfolk and pointers, and other of a description, it took a long while to make to all claimants, and the barrister's to nearly gave way.
"Perhaps, when that who is making such a noise about a with liver-colored spots, has the particular and that he wants—which happy of events likely to arrive—they'll give me my and let me go. The at a that I was to be upon; and that if they were to the life out of me upon this very platform, I should have the to an action against the company."
Suddenly an idea to him, and he left the to for the of his goods, and walked to the other of the station.
He a ring, and looking at the clock, had that the train for Colchester started at this time. He had learned what it was to have an purpose since the of George Talboys; and he the opposite in time to see the take their seats.
There was one lady who had only just at the station; for she on to the at the very moment that Robert approached the train, and almost ran against that in her and excitement.
"I your pardon," she began, ceremoniously; then her from Mr. Audley's waistcoat, which was about on a level with her face, she exclaimed, "Robert, you in London already?"
"Yes, Lady Audley; you were right; the Castle Inn is a place, and—"
"You got of it—I you would. Please open the door for me: the train will start in two minutes."
Robert Audley was looking at his uncle's wife with a puzzled of countenance.
"What it mean?" he thought. "She is a different being to the wretched, who her for a moment, and looked at me with her own face, in the little room at Mount Stanning, four hours ago. What has to the change?"
He opened the door for her while he this, and helped her to settle herself in her seat, her over her knees, and the in which her little was almost hidden.
"Thank you very much; how good you are to me," she said, as he did this. "You will think me very to travel upon such a day, without my dear darling's knowledge too; but I up to town to settle a very milliner's bill, which I did not wish my best of husbands to see; for, as he is, he might think me extravagant; and I cannot to in his thoughts."
"Heaven that you should, Lady Audley," Robert said, gravely.
She looked at him for a moment with a smile, which had something in its brightness.
"Heaven it, indeed," she murmured. "I don't think I shall."
The second rung, and the train moved as she spoke. The last Robert Audley saw of her was that smile.
"Whatever object her to London has been accomplished," he thought. "Has she me by some piece of jugglery? Am I to any nearer to the truth, but am I to be all my life by doubts, and suspicions, which may upon me till I a monomaniac? Why did she come to London?"
He was still himself this question as he the stairs in Figtree Court, with one of his dogs under each arm, and his railway over his shoulder.
He his in their order. The had been tended, and the had retired for the night under of a square of green baize, to the of Mrs. Maloney. Robert a the sitting-room; then setting the dogs upon the hearth-rug, he walked into the little which as his dressing-room.
It was in this room that he portmanteaus, cases, and other lumber; and it was in this room that George Talboys had left his luggage. Robert a from the top of a large trunk, and it with a in his hand, the lock.
To all it was in the same condition in which George had left it, when he his and them in this with all other of his wife. Robert his across the worn, leather-covered lid, upon which the G. T. were with big brass-headed nails; but Mrs. Maloney, the laundress, must have been the most of housewives, for neither the the were dusty.
Mr. Audley a boy to his Irish attendant, and up and his sitting-room waiting for her arrival.
She came in about ten minutes, and, after her in the return of "the master," his orders.
"I only sent for you to ask if has been here; that is to say, if has to you for the key of my rooms to-day—any lady?"
"Lady? No, indeed, honor; there's been no lady for the kay; barrin' it's the blacksmith."
"The blacksmith!"
"Yes; the your ordered to come to-day."
"I order a blacksmith!" Robert. "I left a bottle of French in the cupboard," he thought, "and Mrs. M. has been herself."
"Sure, and the your to see to the locks," Mrs. Maloney. "It's him that in one of the little by the bridge," she added, a very of the man's whereabouts.
Robert his in mute despair.
"If you'll and yourself, Mrs. M.," he said—he her name thus on principle, for the of labor—"perhaps we shall be able by and by to each other. You say a has been here?"
"Sure and I did, sir."
"To-day?"
"Quite correct, sir."
Step by step Mr. Audley the information. A had called upon Mrs. Maloney that at three o'clock, and had asked for the key of Mr. Audley's chambers, in order that he might look to the of the doors, which he were all out of repair. He that he was acting upon Mr. Audley's own orders, to him by a from the country, where the was his Christmas. Mrs. Maloney, in the truth of this statement, had the man to the chambers, where he about an hour.
"But you were with him while he the locks, I suppose?" Mr. Audley asked.
"Sure I was, sir, in and out, as you may say, all the time, for I've been the stairs this afternoon, and I took the opportunity to my while the man was at work."
"Oh, you were in and out all the time. If you give me a plain answer, Mrs. M., I should be to know what was the time that you were out while the was in my chambers?"
But Mrs. Maloney not give a plain answer. It might have been ten minutes; though she didn't think it was as much. It might have been a of an hour; but she was sure it wasn't more. It didn't to her more than five minutes, but "thim stairs, your honor;" and here she off into a upon the of stairs in general, and the stairs Robert's in particular.
Mr. Audley the of resignation.
"Never mind, Mrs. M.," he said; "the had of time to do anything he wanted to do, I say, without your being any the wiser."
Mrs. Maloney at her with and alarm.
"Sure, there wasn't anything for him to stale, your honor, barrin' the and the geran'ums, and—"
"No, no, I understand. There, that'll do, Mrs. M. Tell me where the man lives, and I'll go and see him."
"But you'll have a of dinner first, sir?"
"I'll go and see the I have my dinner."
He took up his as he his determination, and walked toward the door.
"The man's address, Mrs. M?"
The Irishwoman him to a small at the of St. Bride's Church, and Mr. Robert Audley strolled, through the which Londoners call snow.
He the locksmith, and, at the of the of his hat, to enter the low, narrow of a little open shop. A of was in the window, and there was a very party in the little room the shop; but no one to Robert's "Hulloa!" The of this was obvious. The party was so much in its own as to be to all from the world; and it was only when Robert, into the little shop, so as to open the half-glass door which him from the merry-makers, that he succeeded in their attention.
A very picture of the Teniers was presented to Mr. Robert Audley upon the opening of this door.
The locksmith, with his wife and family, and two or three droppers-in of the female sex, were about a table, which was by two bottles; not bottles of that of the berry, much by the masses; but of port and sherry—fiercely sherry, which left a taste in the mouth, nut-brown sherry—rather brown, if anything—and old port; no vintage, and thin from age: but a rich, full-bodied wine, sweet and and high colored.
The was speaking as Robert Audley opened the door.
"And with that," he said, "she walked off, as as you please."
The whole party was into by the of Mr. Audley, but it was to be that the was more embarrassed than his companions. He set his so hurriedly, that he his wine, and his mouth with the of his dirty hand.
"You called at my to-day," Robert said, quietly. "Don't let me you, ladies." This to the droppers-in. "You called at my to-day, Mr. White, and—"
The man him.
"I hope, sir, you will be so good as to look over the mistake," he stammered. "I'm sure, sir, I'm very sorry it should have occurred. I was sent for to another gentleman's chambers, Mr. Aulwin, in Garden Court; and the name my memory; and havin' done odd jobs for you, I it must be you as wanted me to-day; and I called at Mrs. Maloney's for the key accordin'; but directly I see the in your chambers, I says to myself, the gentleman's ain't out of order; the don't want all his repaired."
"But you an hour."
"Yes, sir; for there was one lock out of order—the door the staircase—and I took it off and it and put it on again. I won't you nothin' for the job, and I as you'll be as good as to look over the mistake as has occurred, which I've been in thirteen years come July, and—"
"Nothing of this before, I suppose," said Robert, gravely. "No, it's a of business, not likely to come about every day. You've been this I see, Mr. White. You've done a good of work to-day, I'll wager—made a lucky hit, and you're what you call 'standing treat,' eh?"
Robert Audley looked into the man's as he spoke. The was not a bad-looking fellow, and there was nothing that he need have been of in his face, the dirt, and that, as Hamlet's mother says, "is common;" but in of this, Mr. White's under the barrister's scrutiny, and he out some of speech about his "missus," and his missus' neighbors, and port and wine, with as much as if he, an in a free country, were called upon to himself to Robert Audley for being in the act of himself in his own parlor.
Robert cut him with a careless nod.
"Pray don't apologize," he said; "I like to see people themselves. Good-night, Mr. White good-night, ladies."
He his to "the missus," and the missus' neighbors, who were much by his easy manner and his face, and left the shop.
"And so," he to himself as he to his chambers, "'with that she walked off as as you please.'Who was it that walked off; and what was the which the was telling when I him at that sentence? Oh, George Talboys, George Talboys, am I to come any nearer to the of your fate? Am I nearer to it now, slowly but surely? Is the to day by day until it a dark circle around the home of those I love? How is it all to end?"
He as he walked slowly across the in the Temple to his own chambers.
Mrs. Maloney had prepared for him that bachelor's dinner, which, excellent and in itself, has no to the special of novelty. She had for him a mutton-chop, which was itself two plates upon the little table near the fire.
Robert Audley as he sat to the familiar meal, his uncle's cook with a fond, sorrow.
"Her a la Maintenon mutton more than mutton; a meat that have upon any sheep," he sentimentally, "and Mrs. Maloney's are to be tough; but such is life—what it matter?"
He pushed away his plate after a mouthfuls.
"I have a good dinner at this table since I George Talboys," he said. "The place as as if the had died in the next room, and had been taken away to be buried. How long ago that September as I look at it—that September upon which I with him alive and well; and him as and as if a trap-door had opened in the solid earth and let him through to the antipodes!"
Mr. Audley rose from the dinner-table and walked over to the cabinet in which he the document he had up to George Talboys. He the doors of his cabinet, took the paper from the pigeon-hole marked important, and seated himself at his to write. He added paragraphs to those in the document, the fresh paragraphs as as he had numbered the old ones.
"Heaven help us all," he once; "is this paper with which no attorney has had any hand to be my brief?"
He for about an hour, then replaced the document in the pigeon-hole, and locked the cabinet. When he had done this, he took a in his hand, and into the room in which were his own and the to George Talboys.
He took a of keys from his pocket, and them one by one. The lock of the old was a common one, and at the trial the key easily.
"There'd be no need for any one to open such a lock as this," Robert, as he the of the trunk.
He slowly it of its contents, taking out each article separately, and it upon a chair by his side. He the with a tenderness, as if he had been the of his friend. One by one he the on the chair. He old pipes, and soiled, that had once been fresh from the Parisian maker; old play-bills, biggest the names of actors who were and gone; old perfume-bottles, with essences, fashion had passed away; little of letters, each with the name of the writer; of old newspapers; and a little of shabby, books, each of which into as many pieces as a pack of cards in Robert's hand. But among all the of litter, each of which had once had its purpose, Robert Audley looked in for that which he sought—the packet of to the missing man by his wife Helen Talboys. He had George more than once to the of these letters. He had him once the papers with a hand; and he had him replace them, together with a which had once been Helen's, among the in the trunk. Whether he had them, or they had been since his by some other hand, it was not easy to say; but they were gone.
Robert Audley as he replaced the in the empty box, one by one, as he had taken them out. He stopped with the little of books in his hand, and for a moment.
"I will keep these out," he muttered, "there may be something to help me in one of them."
George's library was no very of literature. There was an old Greek Testament and the Eton Latin Grammar; a French on the sword-exercise; an odd of Tom Jones with one of its leather to it by a thread; Byron's Don Juan, printed in a type, which must have been for the special of and opticians; and a book in a and cover.
Robert Audley locked the and took the books under his arm. Mrs. Maloney was away the of his when he returned to the sitting-room. He put the books on a little table in a of the fire-place, and waited while the her work. He was in no for his consoler; the yellow-papered on the above his and profitless—he opened a of Balzac, but his uncle's wife's and in a haze, upon the of the Peau de Chagrin, and the social of "Cousine Bette." The from his hand, and he sat Mrs. Maloney as she up the on the hearth, the fire, the dark curtains, the wants of the canaries, and put on her in the clerk's office, to her good-night. As the door closed upon the Irishwoman, he from his chair, and up and the room.
"Why do I go on with this," he said, "when I know that it is leading me, step by step, day by day, hour by hour, nearer to that which, of all others, I should avoid? Am I to a wheel, and must I go with its every revolution, let it take me where it will? Or can I here to-night and say I have done my to my missing friend, I have for him patiently, but I have in vain? Should I be in doing this? Should I be in the which I have slowly put together, link by link, at this point, or must I go on adding fresh to that until the last into its place and the circle is complete? I think, and I believe, that I shall see my friend's again; and that no of mine can be of any to him. In plainer, I him to be dead. Am I to how and where he died? or being, as I think, on the road to that discovery, shall I do a to the memory of George Talboys by or stopping still? What am I to do?—what am I to do?"
He rested his on his knees, and his in his hands. The one purpose which had slowly up in his careless nature until it had powerful to work a in that very nature, him what he had been before—a Christian; of his own weakness; to keep to the line of duty; to from the of the that had been upon him; and on a hand than his own to point the way which he was to go. Perhaps he his prayer that night, seated by his fireside, of George Talboys. When he his from that long and revery, his had a bright, glance, and every in his to wear a new expression.
"Justice to the first," he said; "mercy to the afterward."
He his easy-chair to the table, the lamp, and settled himself to the of the books.
He took them up, one by one, and looked through them, looking at the page on which the name of the owner is written, and then for any of paper which might have been left the leaves. On the page of the Eton Latin Grammar the name of Master Talboys was in a prim, hand; the French had a careless G.T. on the in pencil, in George's big, calligraphy: the Tom Jones had been at a book-stall, and an inscription, March 14th, 1788, setting that the book was a of respect to Mr. Thos. Scrowton, from his servant, James Anderley; the Don Juan and the Testament were blank. Robert Audley more freely; he had at the last but one of the books without any result whatever, and there only the gilt-and-crimson-bound to be his was finished.
It was an of the year 1845. The copper-plate of ladies, who had in that day, were yellow and with mildew; the and outlandish; the and commonplace. Even the little of (in which the poet's its light upon the of the artist's meaning) had an old-fashioned twang; like music on a lyre, are by the of time. Robert Audley did not stop to read any of the mild productions. He ran through the leaves, looking for any of or of a which might have been used to mark a place. He nothing but a ring of hair, of that which is so upon the of a child—a sunny lock, which as naturally as the of a vine; and was very opposite in texture, if not different in hue, to the soft, which the at Ventnor had to George Talboys after his wife's death. Robert Audley his of the book, and this yellow lock in a of paper, which he sealed with his signet-ring, and aside, with the about George Talboys and Alicia's letter, in the pigeon-hole marked important. He was going to replace the among the other books, when he that the two blank at the were together. He was so to his search to the very uttermost, that he took the trouble to part these with the end of his paper-knife, and he was for his by an upon one of them. This was in three parts, and in three different hands. The paragraph was as as the year in which the had been published, and set that the book was the property of a Miss Elizabeth Ann Bince, who had the as a for of order, and for to the of Camford House Seminary, Torquay. The second paragraph was five years later, and was in the of Miss Bince herself, who presented the book, as a mark of and (Miss Bince was of a temperament) to her friend, Helen Maldon. The third paragraph was September, 1853, and was in the hand of Helen Maldon, who gave the to George Talboys; and it was at the of this third paragraph that Mr. Robert Audley's from its natural to a sickly, pallor.
"I it would be so," said the man, the book with a sigh. "God I was prepared for the worst, and the has come. I can all now. My next visit must be to Southampton. I must place the boy in hands."
